“Lizzy! Have you seen the officers? Lieutenant Denny is dressed as a Turkish sultan, and Captain Carter as a highwayman. How thrilling they look in their costumes.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “And Mr. Wickham has come as a pirate—ever so dashing with his bandana and cutlass. Though he seems rather intent on finding you.”
“Does he indeed?” Elizabeth’s attention sharpened. Wickham’s presence presented both opportunity and threat. If Martha knew secrets about the night of the fire, perhaps her son did as well.
Elizabeth wondered how the members of the Meryton militia were able to travel such a distance to accompany Mr. Wickham. Ordinarily, Mr. Darcy would never have countenanced officers at Pemberley, but they needed clues, and officer gossip could be revealing when warranted.
“Miss Bennet.” The deep voice behind her sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine despite her best efforts. She turned to find Darcy standing there, resplendent in the armor and red cloak of a Roman centurion. The costume suited him—authoritative, disciplined, and commanding.
“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged with a slight curtsy. “Your home looks magnificent tonight.”
“Thank you.” His eyes traveled briefly over her costume, appreciation flickering in their depths before being carefully masked. “Might I claim the first dance?”
Elizabeth had anticipated this request, knowing that the investigation required close observation of all suspects. What she had not anticipated was the flutter of nerves that accompanied her reply. “Of course.”
The orchestra struck up a lively country dance, and Elizabeth joined Darcy in the line of couples. As they moved through the figures, he maintained a careful distance, yet there was an intimacy to their shared purpose that transcended physical proximity.
“Have you noticed anything of significance?” he asked during a turn that brought them briefly together.
“Not yet,” she replied, equally low. “Though Wickham has apparently been looking for me.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened visibly. “Be careful. He wants something beyond your hand in marriage.”
“As do they all,” Elizabeth observed wryly. “Yet each must be investigated if we’re to discover the truth.”
“I dislike this strategy,” Darcy admitted. “You’re placing yourself in the path of whoever orchestrated your parents’ deaths.”
“I am the bait in our trap,” Elizabeth agreed. “Though I have no intention of being caught.”
The dance separated them before he could respond, and Elizabeth found herself temporarily partnered with Charles Bingley, gaudy and awkward in his knight’s armor.
“Miss Bennet! Or Miss Darcy—forgive me, I’m not certain which you prefer.” His open, friendly countenance showed confusion rather than calculation.
“Miss Bennet will suffice until matters are legally settled,” she replied, studying him carefully. Could this amiable, straightforwardyoung man be party to a murderous conspiracy? Or was he merely a pawn in his mother’s machinations?
When the dance ended, Elizabeth found herself approached by a succession of partners.
George Wickham claimed her hand for a Scottish reel, his pirate costume lending him a roguish charm that Elizabeth now found more sinister than appealing.
“Diana suits you admirably,” he observed as they moved through the figures. “The huntress in pursuit of her rightful place.”
“I seek truth rather than position,” Elizabeth corrected him. “Though I wonder if you might assist me in that quest, Mr. Wickham. Your mother seems to know a great deal about the night of the fire.”
“My mother saved your life,” Wickham replied, his smile never wavering, though his eyes grew cold. “A fact that seems to have escaped your gratitude.”
“I am grateful for my life,” Elizabeth said carefully. “Though I question why she concealed my identity for twenty years, only to reveal it now with such… specific conditions attached.”
“Protection,” Wickham said. “From those who would have preferred you remain conveniently dead.”
“Would it not be a kindness to point those people out so I can avoid them?” she asked as he turned her around.
“My presence will prevent their advance.” He glared in Darcy’s direction. “And marriage would blunt their menace. As an officer, I am well armed.”
The dance separated them, and she was again paired with a red-faced Charles Bingley.
“Dreadfully warm in this armor,” he confessed, accepting a glass of punch from a passing servant. “Mother insisted I represent the noble Bingley heritage, though I feel rather foolish clanking about.”
“Your mother seems to have strong opinions on many matters,” Elizabeth observed, watching him drain his punch in a single swallow. “I understand your father and Mr. William Darcy were close business associates?”
“Oh, yes—thick as thieves, those two!” Charles laughed, then hiccupped slightly. “The fortunes of both families were built on their special trading arrangements.”
